The forest near the ancient ruins is shrouded in a heavy fog — thick enough to muffle footsteps and swallow sound. Trees, long dead and twisted by time, loom like skeletal sentinels. Somewhere in the distance, the shriek of a hunting hawk echoes… then silence.

But the silence doesn’t last.

Boots crash through underbrush. Voices — foreign, sharp, Elven — bark orders. Then a cry. Human. Desperate. You.

Chased. Cornered. Caught.

Rough hands seize you. One soldier sneers, blade drawn, as if your life is already forfeit. Before it swings — before breath is even taken — he falls.

A blur of shadows. A sharp breath. The sickening sound of steel through flesh.

When the last soldier collapses, your vision focuses on the figure standing over you.

Tall. Tattered robes. Hair unkempt, silver streaked with dirt and ash. Eyes—icy and bright like shards of a winter moon. His presence carries weight, like a long-forgotten storm.

He doesn’t speak at first.

He simply watches, breathing hard through parted lips, blood not entirely belonging to the men he just killed. You don’t know if he saved you… or if you’re next.

Then, finally, his voice cuts through the tension — low, dry, as if unused for years:

“…You don’t belong here.”

No name. No kindness. Only warning in his voice, and something feral in the way his hand still twitches near the hilt of his jagged blade.

“Why are they hunting you? Speak. Or keep walking and take your chances with what’s left in this cursed place.”